


Promise

by shenko464



Series: Tales of the Silver Lilies and the White Wolf [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenko464/pseuds/shenko464
Summary: Sometimes you have to make a deal to escape your current predicament.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vernon Roche, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Vernon Roche
Series: Tales of the Silver Lilies and the White Wolf [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628383
Kudos: 31





	Promise

Geralt cursed his current predicament.

He’d fought monsters and bandits, hell, even other mages for once. However, he didn’t foresee becoming a King’s court witcher. He couldn’t have known what path King Foltest had started him on, a path that diverged from his desired Path of a witcher and moved deeper into political intrigue, rife with chaos and human idiocy.

Now, now, he was hanging from shackles that had been chained to the top of his small prison. Guards relished in their positions as his torturers, the cruelty and apathy towards their prisoner making their blows harder than necessary. 

Through it all, he merely grunted and occasionally, deliberately let pained sounds escape his lips, chapped and dry despite the prison’s humidity. He was no stranger to being in prisons and being at the mercy of other humans. All torturers were the same in their regard – hearing a prisoner suffer often lessen the blows, giving him a minute of respite at least.  


He had faith in his body, at how durable the mutations made his body. Unfortunately, here, where his sense of time was nonexistent due to the darkness of his cell, his body was weakening. 

The lack of food and water didn’t help either and Geralt had no idea of how long he’d been imprisoned.

All he knew was that his chances of getting out of here alive were growing slimmer and slimmer. Each shift changes only heralded more suffering, more whiplashes until he could feel the blood dripping down his back. His skin pulled painfully and Geralt unwittingly let out another moan. Fiery tendrils ghosted down his back and all Geralt could do was to endure this. 

The next day was different. Instead of the usual insults and whips, the guards merely let his hands down and swiftly bound him with a heavy chain. He couldn’t use his signs as the dimeritium canceled the magics that could be present in the prison cells. 

A smart move for the La Valettes for it wouldn’t take much for a mage to escape a cell.

However, it also meant that Geralt couldn’t simply snap his fingers for an igni and burn his assailants. 

Even if he wanted to, Geralt wished to explain his presence at the late King Foltest’s side. He wished the men could see how clean his sword was and that there couldn’t have been time for him to wipe the blood off if he had murdered the King in cold blood. In the shock of seeing King Foltest so brutally murdered, the Temerians only had one thing on mind – revenge.

The guards pushed him forward, deliberately pressing against his still bleeding wounds. A sharp pain cut through him but he refused to let the guards know of their results. They had plenty of opportunities to enjoy wringing pained sounds earlier. 

Other prisoners catcalled him and some even made lewd suggestions of his body, regardless of the prisoners’ gender. No matter. They were suffering all the same and misery loves company.

An idle thought of possibly being led to his execution crept into his weary mind as the guards led him through a dark hallway and into a room. 

He was forced to sit down unto the bench at a small wooden table and the guards promptly left him. 

Before he could even deduce the possibility that he wasn’t going to be executed, soft footsteps echoed through the hallway he’d just come through. The pace told Geralt of the owner and he already knew that King Foltest’s right-hand man was indeed going to pay him a visit, for good or ill. 

_Perhaps he’ll believe me._

#### The Temerian Ship 

It wouldn’t be till hours later that Geralt finally managed to escape the La Valette Castle, leaving behind a smoldering ruin of the dungeons and guilt of leaving behind a man whose unlucky fate was primarily his fault. 

Two figures awaited the witcher as he approached the pier, a red-headed young woman and the man with a chaperone and dressed in his usual Temerian outfit. Even in almost complete darkness, Geralt could plainly see the tension dripping off the man, his muscles tense and hands clenched into tight fists. 

The woman was just as tense, but more with worry for Geralt. Her perfume of raspberries and cream couldn’t mask the scent of her use of magic, bitter and sharp like a cutting knife-edged with poison. It was a wonder that Geralt just now noticed this as if he was breaking free from a spell. The pain was always good at clearing away the haze of dreams.

Vernon’s face scowled at him, ever so suspicious of everyone, but Geralt could see a tinge of worry hiding behind the frown. Was it worry for him as a friend or an asset? Vernon, after all, didn’t make friends, only enemies.

“You were to escape the dungeon, without a bloodbath.” The curt remark clearly indicated how Vernon thought of his longer than planned escape. 

“You gave me the key to my manacles, not an invisibility cloak,” Geralt dryly replied and Vernon conceded, knowing that the witcher made a good point. 

After spending a few moments discussing what was happening and what their next steps would be, Geralt looked to Triss and asked if she could help him with his wounds. 

The lashes throbbed even more as the adrenaline of his previous situation fizzled out, leaving behind only a deep bone weariness that made Geralt want to just lie down and sleep. 

“Of course,” Triss said, perhaps a bit too eagerly for Geralt’s comfort, and she followed the witcher down to the lower bowels of the ship.

Vernon’s sharp gaze was fixed on them until the pair disappeared below and the Commander swiftly told the helmsman to take them to Flotsam’s harbor. 

It wasn’t even a half-hour past Geralt’s arrival that Triss suddenly strode upstairs, anger marring her beautiful face. Whatever Geralt had said clearly upset the sorceress. 

“You, Roche. You should get down there and talk some sense into him. I seem to can’t. Besides, it’s your fault that he’s in this condition.”

Without giving him a chance to defend himself, which he wouldn’t, Triss huffed and strode to the far side of the ship, away from both him and Geralt.

Wanting to hear from Geralt of what could fluster a sorceress so, one that was clearly so infatuated with the witcher, Vernon descended to the lower floor. 

The lower bowel smelled of ocean and oil and the stairs creaked underneath his weight. However, the ship was crafted from one of the best Temerian shipwright companies and the stairs held up well, as they had done so for the past fifty voyages. 

Orange candlelight emitted from one of the rooms at the end of the hallway and it was there that Vernon saw Geralt sitting calmly in a small tub. The water was still hot as wisps of steam rose up in the air, giving the room a foggy appearance. 

Geralt’s back was turned to him and Vernon’s heart pulled only slightly at the marks left behind. Triss was partially right; the lashes were done at his behest as he told the guards to do anything except for sexual approaches. If the witcher was spoiled in that regard, Vernon warned the guards that they would face something even worse from him. He honestly didn’t know why he made such an order.

After all, the other prisoners weren’t so lucky to have Vernon’s protection if you could call it that. But Geralt was a former colleague and, from the late King’s mouth, succeeded at protecting his King from the first assassination attempt. That move placed the witcher on Vernon’s ‘slightly trustworthy list’. 

“Thoughts got your tongue?” Geralt interrupted his thoughts and Vernon just frowned at how Geralt knew of his presence. 

“I’m a witcher,” came the dry reply and that made Vernon’s brows furrow even more.  
However, the reply was accompanied by a pained groan as the witcher tried to wash his back but couldn’t. 

The lashes bled sluggishly now, giving the bathwater a pinkish hue to it.

“Any way you can help me with this? Triss was apparently done.” Geralt motioned to a small bundle of items left on the bench next to the tub – a pile of white cloths and a small clear bottle, probably a salve to help heal the wounds. 

“Only because I need you in a better state,” Vernon said, perhaps a little harsher than he intended. 

He sat behind Geralt and silence blanketed the room as the two men, in such an intimate setting, didn’t know what to say to each other. Geralt’s small grunts of pain were the only sounds followed by the gentle dripping of water as Vernon gently wiped down his back. 

“What did you say to Triss that made her angry?” Vernon liked getting information about his associates and the bath often relaxes one’s defenses. 

“She wanted to run and leave this behind. I told her no, that I made a promise.”

Vernon’s hand stopped for a split second, the cloth was swollen, with water dripping down Vernon’s arm. 

“Apparently, she was upset that I’m sticking to my promise to you rather than to her.”  
“Must be that time of the month then.”

Geralt snorted and then winced as Vernon wiped down the last lash, on his lower left flank. Seven on each side and the lower ones were deeper, cutting into muscle. If the witcher were any other man, the muscle would still be torn and bleeding heavily. Now, it had healed enough for the skin to start rebuilding itself. 

Without realizing it himself, Vernon’s finger trailed along the lash and the man marveled at how durable the witcher’s body must be. No wonder he never gave in, even after a week of hellish torture, of Vernon’s own design. 

A soft moan echoed in the room and Vernon’s finger continued trailing along the other lashes, some deeper and others lighter. 

“Vernon…” Geralt’s voice was raspy and it stirred something in the man’s loins. No, now wasn’t the time to caress each wound, each lash that he had caused. 

“Remember your promise, witcher,” Vernon’s voice was lower than usual and Geralt wasn’t sure if the man was trying to be intimidating or seductive, considering how close his mouth was to his ear. Hot breath escaped Vernon’s lips and it made Geralt shudder out of anticipation. 

“Get dressed,” the Temerian Commander rose up from his seat and placed the now dirty cloth on the bench. 

Vernon didn’t bat an eye at the sight of the witcher getting out of the small tub, water dripping down from the lean body but there was something that Geralt picked up from the other man. An increase in the heartbeat and a flicker of emotion in those sharp brown eyes all followed by a slight scent of male arousal.

To any man, the Commander was merely just standing there, waiting patiently for an acquaintance to be ready to go. Geralt knew better and he would follow through on his promise if only to see what kind of reward he may garner at the end of this journey.


End file.
